


To All My Wars

by Port



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hunting and school do not mix, Pre-Series, smart!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-20
Updated: 2006-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Port/pseuds/Port
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in years, John looks at Dean's report card.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To All My Wars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/gifts).



> A birthday present for Smilla back in 2006, when we must have only been in S1 or 2. Thank you to Carina84 for the beta!

  


And in his eyes he gathered the nameless dead,  
He gathered many dead for me, to know  
Them in his eyes, and not to share their dread, 

And not to die like them. His gaze was strong,  
He filled his eyes with them … And he was wrong:  
To all my wars it's I who have to go.

\- Yehuda Amichai, from _Here We Loved_  
  
---  
  
  
John read again the report card he had found on the kitchen table. He'd thought it was Sam's at first; Sam tended to leave this sort of thing for his father to find. A's and B's every semester. _Look at me, Dad_. 

And John did. "Great job at school, Sammy. Keep up the good work." Gave him that much and considered it indulgent. Because after the first few years of high grades, they didn't impress John anymore. He'd open the envelope expecting nothing less than those A's and B's from his younger son. That was Sam, and when Sam did his best, he would seldom disappoint you.

Funny that he should have forgotten about Dean's grades. Oh, just the opposite at first. He'd kept at Dean throughout elementary school, refusing to accept F or D for an answer. He made Dean do his homework every night after weapons practice, to teach him perseverance. He checked over the crinkled worksheets and loose-leaf papers himself, pointing out errors so that Dean would learn to never be sloppy, to do things right the first time. He attended every parent-teacher conference the schools requested (and Lord, were there many), with Dean in tow. Listened to the teachers' complaints and took their side every time, even when he personally disagreed. Had Dean stand up and apologize for being rowdy, not listening, for fighting and refusing to cooperate. Promise not to do it again.

Because John would be damned if Dean used his mother's death as an excuse to turn into some kind of delinquent.

He had been an attentive parent back then, and it had made a difference. By the middle of fifth grade, Dean regularly turned in A's and B's. The conferences tapered off, and John began to receive notes from teachers exclaiming over what a charmer Dean was. "A joy to have in class."

By the sixth grade, the B's had all but vanished. John told Dean that was more like it and continued to read Dean's report cards until about the end of middle school. Dean would stand at ease in front him while John inspected the grades, and he'd grin as soon as John looked down, nodded and ruffled his hair. After a while, what was the point of looking at the card? Dean had demonstrated he could excel; now John expected him to. About this time, John came into possession of a number of important books and was soon engrossed in research day and night. He left standing orders for Dean to report any low grades—the appearance of a B, or a "Satisfactory" in place of an "Excellent."

Dean never had, and the need to push him in school became one less burden for John to shoulder. He didn't worry about the grades themselves anymore. The important thing was Dean had learned to discipline himself. Mary would be proud of them both.

Now Dean was seventeen, and it occurred to John that he had not seen one of his report cards in over five years. He did briefly wonder whether Dean had held back on him, but he dismissed the idea as unworthy. Especially in light of the grade-point average printed on the bottom of the card.

"Dean," John called. He found him doing inventory in the garage. John had to admit his kid looked content with the task, patiently counting extra shells into a pail. When John came in, Dean looked over and held up a finger, respectfully. When the last shell had dropped into the tin bucket, Dean wrote his count in a column on their supply sheet.

"Hey, Dad."

"Keep going," John said, gesturing to the supplies laid out around the stool where Dean sat close to the floor. Dean shrugged and started inspecting a waterproof poncho for tears. "I found your report card," John said dutifully. "Good job."

Dean didn't look up from the poncho and its seams, but his shoulders jumped. "Thanks, Dad." John watched him fold up the one poncho and pick up another. Dean moved in an easy rhythm, apparently unconcerned with John's presence. At seventeen, Dean had somehow developed a boyish innocence he had lacked when actually a child. Life was simple: you took care of your brother, worked tirelessly on the hunt and obeyed your father—all the while eating the kitchen out of meat on a daily basis. Dean was growing up strong. But for some reason, he was also studying hard at school.

"You've got fourteen absences this semester," John said. 

Dean still didn't look up, but he raised an eyebrow. "I believe—"

"Don't worry. I know what those were for." And Dean relaxed again.

"Another semester, you can hunt full time," John ventured. He had been eager for his oldest's graduation for a while now. 

Dean looked up. Looked happy. "I know."

"Grades like these might make you think twice."

"Yeah," Dean said, lulled into openness by pride and the conversational tone. "One of my teachers is always saying, 'You should go to college.' Said I'd do well at anything I studied."

John nodded. He hadn't realized Dean would still respond to that kind of praise. Hard to remember that a seventeen-year-old was as much boy as man, and it felt wrong that a stranger should take a hand in building Dean's confidence when John himself had perhaps stopped too early. John realized he was frowning. He said, "You do good when you apply yourself, Dean."

Dean stilled, turned only his eyes toward his father. "Yeah," he said and went back to looking for holes in the parka. He found a small rent on the inner lining and reached for a roll of duct tape. "Look, Dad, I was thinking—"

John had a fear that if he let the words out of Dean's own mouth, Dean would move permanently beyond his influence. So he said the words himself, took ownership of them. "I want you to go to college, son."

Dean dropped the parka, and at John's pointed look picked it up off the dirty floor again. "You do?"

"You're smart enough. You work hard, make good grades." As a matter of fact, Dean made exceptional grades. "You'd do well."

Dean listened to his father with a studied lack of caution.

"I, ah." He looked down and scratched the back of his head. "I was thinking of applying somewhere. Just…. You know. Maybe learn something that would be useful on the hunt."

"You know you're already useful on the hunt, Dean." He ignored the way Dean's eyes lit up. "College won't help you with that."

"Might," Dean said. "Knowledge is power, and—well, what's the point of going if it's not gonna help us find out what happened to Mom?"

"Exactly," John said. "That's exactly it."

John let the silence that followed linger, until Dean said, "Maybe it wouldn't help enough. Not to make a difference." He sounded uncertain.

"Maybe," John agreed. He pulled another stool away from the wall, sat down on it across from Dean. Then he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "If you want to learn more about the dark, you've gotta start with books. And books don't make you pay tuition to read 'em, either." John smiled, pulled a matching smile out of Dean, who nodded. "Then you've gotta talk to people with experience. Like Caleb and Bobby. You won't find their like in a big school, son."

Dean grinned, probably thinking of some experience with either man. Caleb and Bobby had made poor, yet enthusiastic babysitters when the boys were young. That was probably why Dean and Sam had taken to them so completely.

John cleared his throat, and Dean looked up. "Give it some thought, Dean. You've got the grades to go, and I want more than this for you in the long run. Just think on whether it's actually going to help us, or if you're more, uh, curious about college life for its own sake." He raised his eyebrows, used the gesture to imply everything from dorm life to frat keggers to coeds.

"No, Dad, that's not it—"

"Good. That's not what we're about."

Dean looked down, looked back up again, seemed to be holding back a lot of words.

"Dean," John said. He stretched out his arm to clasp Dean's shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be on your own." Dean shifted, appeared to swallow back all the words he hadn't said and waited for John to continue. "You get impatient, want to make your own decisions. Hell, I joined the Marines right out of high school because I felt the same way. And aside from marrying your mother, it was the best decision I ever made. You're old enough to choose for yourself what you should do."

"Yeah, Dad." Dean met John's eyes. "Yeah, I know that."

"Good." John stood up, dug into his pants pocket and handed Dean his report card. "See you inside when you're done."

John entered the house, then quietly doubled back to the garage, not quite knowing why he did. Dean had kept still, had not returned to the inventory. Instead, he sat frowning at the folded piece of paper in his hands. He stared at the report card for several long minutes. 

Then he crumpled it up, tossed it into a dusty, cobwebbed corner of the garage...

... and went back to counting supplies. John's relief lasted only moments, though, for Dean appeared to sense his presence. He turned around and looked right at his father. No matter that he instantly forgave it, John doubted he would soon forget the expression on his son's face. 

In the same position, John supposed, he'd be pissed too.

_End._


End file.
